


A Cold Spectre

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandoned Dean Winchester, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bottom Sam, Broken Dean Winchester, Castiel & Sam Winchester Friendship, Castiel Helping Sam, Castiel in the Bunker, Character Death, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Charlie Bradbury & Sam Winchester Friendship, Dean Winchester and Feelings, Dean Winchester is Sam Winchester's Parent, Deathfic, Declarations Of Love, Drinking to Cope, Episode: s08e23 Sacrifice, Falling Angels, Flashbacks, Gen, Ghost Drifting, Ghost Sam Winchester, Haunting, Heaven & Hell, Human Castiel, Impala Sex, Implied Castiel/Sam Winchester, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kevin Helps Sam, Kevin Tran Lives, Kissing, Light Petting, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Past Relationship(s), Recovering Alcoholic Dean Winchester, References to Metatron, Rough Kissing, Sam Winchester Dies, Sam Winchester's Hell Trials, Samulet, Sastiel - Freeform, Sastiel if you squint, Self-Sacrifice, Sex in the Impala, Spells & Enchantments, The Demon Tablet, Top Castiel, Touch-Starved, Trials of Hell, ghost summoning, hunter funeral, letting go, no mark of cain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-05-19 04:10:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14866346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Sam watched his brother and his friend walk away, neither glancing at him, but both shiver at an unseen presence. It’s cold, God, it’s so cold; especially when you’re dead.”After Sam Winchester finishes the trials of Hell, he dies and is forced to walk the Earth as a spectre.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, few and treasured readers, this is a deathfic, so be warned. Sam Winchester bites the dust, and it’s sad... Even more sad because he’s a ghost. I better not get any hate messages saying I didn’t warn you because I did. Anywho, now that that’s out of the way, this also a slight Sastiel fanfic, so if you don’t like that ship whatevs, just don’t bother those who do. So, now that’s said and done, I present my story..... 1,2,3 READ  
> :)

“ _It occurred to me that if I were a ghost, this ambiance is what I’d miss most: the ordinary day to day bustle the living. Ghosts long, I’m sure, for the stupidest, most unremarkable things.” Banana Yoshimoto_

 

**May 15, 2013**

**Unknown Church; Presumably Abandoned** **Lebanon, Kansas**

Sam Winchester exhaled sharply a he intoned the spell,” _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, hanc an imam redintegra, lustra_.” He threw the book to the ground, raising the demon blade from his side as he let out a pained, ragged breath.

Sam closed his eyes, pressing the blade against his shaking palm as he slid it across. To Sam, the burning sensations of the purifying mystical energy coursing through his veins were a blessing. At least he was feeling something. But of course, like any indentation of feeling that came to him on these rare occasions of recent events, it gradually turned into nothingness, and he was numb again.

Sam had brought this upon himself. He alone had destroyed any chance of a common friendship between his brother that came to every living creature so naturally. It had happened so long ago that he sometimes forgot why he'd done it. He’s tried to blame the rift on everything; Mary Winchester, Azazel, Ruby, even Lucifer himself, but it’s evident who it belongs to.

Sam’s hazel hues are red-rimmed and empty, almost as if he knows that he will in fact die. With a soft rasp of air, he closes his eyes and puts his bloodied hand forward, a pulsing angelic glow surrounding the gaping wound. He opened his eyes and stared at the demon before him, the two’s eyes meet for the briefest moment-an acknowledgment of some sort-the gates of Hell would soon slam shut.

Crowley resigned to his fate, could do nothing but simply stare back,”Sam….”

”Sammy, _stop_ ,” A voice bellowed from the doorway.

Startled, Sam turned to the owner his surprise clearly etched into his hollowed face. Then his teeth clenched as his gaze met that of his older brother and began to shake, the magic that pulsed through his entire body starting to buzz with a high. He crooked his head and gulped, and his blood thick and heady as a fine wine was ravaged by the sheer power.

”Easy there, okay,” Dean says softly, offering his hands in the air,”Just take it easy. We got a slight change of plan.”

Sam gulped again, and shook his head in confusion,”What? What’s going on,” His eyes widened and fear crept into his features,”Where’s Cas?”

Dean takes a breath, slowly lowering hands,”Metatron lied,” He pointed at Sam, his green eyes taking a hardened glare,”You finish this trial, you’re dead, Sam.”

The younger Winchester’s eyes went wildly around the room, before he gulped again,”So?”

Something flashed beneath the surface of the older Winchester’s hardened expression. Sam stumbled towards his brother, and with each step his muscles tightened and ached all the more. He kept swallowing, and his throat kept clenching, but no matter what he could not stop the warm feeling rising through his chest.

“Look at him! Look how close we are,” Sam points at himself accusingly as he barks,”Other people will die if I don’t finish this!”

Dean edges a soothing hand forward, trying to reason with his brother,”Think about it. Think about what we know, huh,” He keeps edging closer and closer to his brother as his says,”Pulling souls from hell, curing demons, Hell, ganking a hellhound! We have enough knowledge to turn the tide here. But I _can’t_ do it without you.”

Sam let out a wild and bitter laugh, his lips trembling around the sound. The very air seems to shudder and a chill creeps down Dean's spine. Sam ceases his almost maniacal laughter and says,”You can barely do it with me. I mean, you think I screw up everything I try. You think I need a chaperone, remember?”

“Come on, man. That’s not what I meant—“

“No,” Sam’s voice is strained, and he looks close to tears,”It’s exactly what you meant. You want to know what I confessed in there… What my greatest sin was,” He smiled a cold, cruel smile,”It was how many times I let you down. I-I can’t do that again.”

“Sam—“

“What happens when you’ve decided I can’t be trusted again? I mean, who are you going to turn to next time instead of me? Another angel, another—“, His face contorted in the utmost disgust as he leaned his head forward,”Another vampire? Do you have any idea what it feels like to watch your brother just—“

“Hold on, hold on,” Dean growls, his own eyes starting to sheen with tears,”You seriously think that? Because none of it— _None_ of it is true! Listen, man, I know we’ve had our disagreements, okay? Hell, I know I’ve said some junk that set you back on your heels,” His lip quivers,”But, e on. I killed Benny to save you. I’m willing to let this bastard and all the sons of bitches that killed mom walk because of you. Don’t you dare think that there is anything, past or present, that I would put in front of you! It has never been like that, ever!”

He continues, his voice starting to shake as he practically begs,”I need you to see that. I’m begging you.”

The latter stared helplessly into his older brother’s eyes, gentle tears cascading down his hallowed face,”I-I can’t stop, Dean, I _can’t_ ,” Sam says, a hectic light in his eyes as his hands clenched and unclenched into fists,”I have to finish this.”

Dean’s emerald hues widened as he pleaded,”No. No, no, please, Sammy, don’t do this,” His voice raises in a scream,”Don’t you dare, don’t you dare leave me like this, Sammy! Not after everything!”

Sam smiled softly, his tears starting to slow,”I’m sorry, Dean,” He pressed his bleeding palm against the king of hell’s cold, chapped lips,” Kah nuh ahm dahr.”

The pillar of light erupts with a volcanic force from the demon, pitching the two men forward in an unbearable wave of heat and rubble that cracks their skin, rattles their heart, and snatches their breath away. The world fades into blistering white.

The chaos freezes like a gasped breath held in waiting lungs. Scorching heat becomes crystal, a wall of snow that hangs in the air like fog. All Dean feels are pins and needles, and he's floating, listlessly drifting in an endless sea of static. It's like startling awake from one nightmare and into another. His body half-numb with a brain full of molasses, awareness sinks its teeth deep into him and drags him like a savage dog into the swirling confusion of semi-consciousness.

”Sam,” Dean moans, dragging himself forward,”Sammy! _Sammy_!”

”D’hn,” A voice moans weakly at his side.

Laughter burbles in Dean’s chest from a well of pure, sick relief and panic. From the very second it starts, it doesn't feel right. There's no humor or happiness in it, but it bangs its way out of his throat like gravel. The older Winchester laughs so deliriously his eyes overflow with tears once again.

“Sammy!” His body is still numb as he bolts upright with the grace of a poorly-strung marionette. His body screams at him in protest, making him stifle one of his own, his vision going dark around the edges.

He has to lay still, but he can't. He's wild-eyed and completely out of his senses, still half-blind and deaf from the blast. There's nothing to laugh about. Then he heard it. It hadn't been a scream of fear, it was more like a pain-stricken wail. It reverberated through the Church’s foundations, sending shockwaves like tangible anguish through the wooden structure, passing over them and down into the darkness of the bottom floors, dying into nothing. Sam.

Sam writhed on the floor, his arms flared with the mythical energy as he curled into a tight ball. His breaths came out in choking rasps as he inhaled and exhaled frantically. His heart beat uncontrollably fast, fluttering away like a frightened little bird in his chest. His tan skin seemed to nearly glow with heat as his body temperature climbed rapidly, yet his lips tinged with blue as of he were freezing.

“ _Sammy_ ,” Dean roars, gripping his brother by the jacket as he pulled him forward. The other man’s feverish skin burns like hot iron around him, his grip on his arms grinding the bones together, but he held him closer nonetheless,”Sam, please, just hang on—Hey, keep your eyes open!”

Dean supporting all of Sam’s weight, the two of them stumble out into the pouring rain. Sam collapses against the impala, labored breathes coming out as wheezes as his eyes bulge. Dean falls beside him, pulling the latter to him as he crushes him close and wraps his arms around him because he couldn’t think of anything else to do, couldn’t possibly respond in any other way. One arm is ‘round his torso with the other going over his left shoulder to support his head.

He grabbed the back of Sam’s head, pulling his brother’s face closer to his own, his forehead to his, and Dean closed his eyes and gripped tight, and cries,”Cas! Castiel,” His brother’s body is slowly starting to still beneath him, so he starts to roar,”Where the hell are you?”

The rain has lost the ambient temperature of early sprong, freezing and paling his skin on contact. He pulls his brother in even closer, trying to shield him from the freezing downpour. He felt Sam swallow, felt the tell-tale bob of his Adam’s apple against the side of his throat. His heart is starting to still in his heaving chest, his frantic lungs expanding and deflating, desperate for air, but none can reach them.

“Dean, I-I’m sorry,” Sam chokes out, a dribble of blood leaving his mouth.

“Sam…” He felt the hot sting of tears. Dammit, not now. “Come on, man…don’t. Just…don’t. I can s-still...” His brother slouched in his arms, his head falling on his shoulder.

Dean’s hand rose up to grip the side of Sam’s neck, the long, elegant curve, thumb slotting into place in the hollow where his pulse was gone. Dead. He's dead. Sam was dead, eyes fixed and vacant. But, still he held his baby brother. He just closed his eyes and leaned against his brother’s still body, a single tear cascading down his cheek.

That’s when the angels began to fall.

 

**August 3, 2013**

**Men of Letters Bunker**

**Lebanon, Kansas**

 

Sam Winchester reverently rubbed his fingers along the silken mattress. He pressed his cheek to the cool, cotton pillows. The comforter was thick and irresistibly soft, like a billowing cloud. Yet, the dust that coated the entire bed wasn’t disturbed by his touch; it blanketed the entire room, not just the bed. It looked as if no one had even opened the door to step foot in the room for months. And that was a bleak fact.

All of the furniture was unmoved, not a single beam of light penetrated the darkness, and it was so, so cold. The permanent cold licked at his face and crept under his clothes, spreading across his skin like the lacy tide on a frigid winter beach. Strange, it’d been a while since he could recall a sensation like that—What did frigid water feel like against his skin, he can’t remember. There are many things he can’t remember; the taste of bitter, black coffee, the gentle touch of another living being, the feeling of sunlight on his skin as he ran—

Sam exited the room, making his way through the dark Men of Letters bunker, but as he walked, almost glided, through the hall the temperature seemed to drop. The comforting warmth the old heaters emitted seemed futile the further he went, an overwhelming cold eventually reaching the library. The youngest Winchester stared at one of the many tables occupant’s.

Dean Winchester was passed out on the surface of the table, a splash of vomit surrounding his pale face. Several beer bottles lined the table, all in a row like soldiers preparing for war. His breath is thick, and shaking as he inhales and exhales. A small picture is tucked under his slack fingers, a picture of a much younger Sam Winchester, his high school senior picture.

The memory, like many others was hard to recall, but he eventually remembered—Dean had felt bad that they couldn’t afford any of the senior commodities; pictures, banners, the whole shebang, so he’d worked long, grueling hours at a local diner to pay for them. Sam had hugged him and had allowed him to accompany him for his pictures, later thanking him by leaving in a stolen car after receiving a letter for Stanford University.

The steam that had risen from the coffee when Sam had first placed it on the table was quite gone. The top bore the tell tale signs of a skin forming. Still he stood there with his hands cusped around it, as if he liked the idea of drinking it but lacked the will power to lift it to her lips. He glanced down at the mug, thick, ceramic, cold to touch, and supposed it was his own touch which had stolen the heat, made it like tepid like old bathwater to drink. Tyler put the coffee down with tight pursed lips.

Castiel, looking oddly relaxed in a pair of sweats walks into the room, and sighs when he sees Dean. He walks over to his friend, and gently slaps his hand against his face in an attempt to wake him. Dean murmurs, before letting out a thick, loud cough as he sits up and wipes the boot from the corner of his mouth. He eyes the coffee and hold it up, mocking a toast to the former angel.

“Thanks for the brew,” The hunter downs it all in one gulp, before grimacing at the coldness,”Would it have killed you to heat it up?”

“I did not make any coffee, Dean,” Castiel replies timidly,”I just woke up.”

No one questioned the issue further. Sam watched his brother and his friend walk away, neither glancing at him, but both shiver at an unseen presence. It’s cold, God, it’s so cold; especially when you’re dead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean learns just how hard it is to cope, and a nightmare certainly doesn’t help. A now human Castiel is also trying to cope, but with a different kind of loss.

“ _During the day I don’t believe in ghosts. At night, I’m a little more open minded.” Unknown_

 

**May 28, 2013**

**Grief Counseling Office**

**Sioux Falls, South Dakota**

Dean Winchester didn't like the grief counselor. He was thin and ginger, that's all he needed to know. His voice came out like he had a grass reed for a tongue and he was too skinny. He walked like his legs were stilts with a hinge at the knees. He dressed for the job he wanted, that was for sure; pressed khaki trousers, brown unpolished shoes, and a blue shirt buttoned to the collar. The fact that he wore fucking khakis made taking the man seriously that much harder of a task—But, he’d promised he’d try.

When he spoke Dean stared at his head, "Too small," The hunter thought, he can't get much of a brain in there. He wanted to reach right out of the leather chair and snatch the concerned look right off his freckled face. A strong slap might do though or maybe a right hook. He wanted to block his words right out, but the receptionist was looking and he didn't want to appear any crazier than normal. He was probably one outburst from getting dragged away in a jacket that didn’t have detachable arms.

“Tell me, Dean, why are you here,” The grief counselor presses, his hands folded over his lap,”I can tell you are not the kind of man to submit to counseling. Did a family member or maybe a friend pressure you into coming?”

Dean swallowed, his hands gripping the sides of the chair. “Yes,” He grits out,”Friends, they don’t think I’m coping. And they’re right, I’m not.”

“And why is that, Dean,” The man leans forward, and says,”Is it because you’re afraid? Afraid that if you begin to cope, that it’s real… That your brother is really dead, and that he is not coming back,” He points to one of the many inspirational posters on the fading yellow wall,”Life is short, death is forever.”

The hunter almost burst into hysterical laughter at that. “Death doesn’t tend to stick,” He responds bluntly,”At least for us, we’re like cockroaches… we keep coming back. But, this one, well, it is seeming to stick.”

“Oh, I see, you and your brother have had many near death experiences,” The man concludes with a nod.

Dean stares blankly. He tried to remember that normal people like this man, they’ve never had actual, legitimate death experiences and come back. Sure, there were the brief moments, when the heart would stop and then suddenly come jolting back to life again, but no… Dean and Sam Winchester had died countless times and had come back over and over again, so much that they felt like wind-up toys.

“Something like that,” Dean settles on that.

The hunter ran his hand through his close cropped hair three times in quick succession and fixed the grief counselor in a stare that could have frozen the Pacific. He viewed the small man through narrowed eyes as he weighed the pros and cons of the various and creative means available to him for to kick the man’s ass. He didn’t want to talk about this because talking about the fact that his brother is… dead, it makes it real.

Grief and depression overwhelmed him, and even though he still had his friends, he felt abandoned. That he was grown into manhood offered him no sanctuary from the forlorn feeling of being the only Winchester alone in the world, a feeling he had known before, when his brother had died the first time. And then again the second time. But, this time there was nothing he could do to bring him back.

Dean stood up from his chair and walked out of the room. He ignored the objections of the grief counselor and pushed his way past Jody Mills, the woman that he’d dragged him here in the first place. And he fumbled for his keys in the pocket of his jacket, but he couldn’t stop shaking. Why was he shaking? He reached the car, but then the keys fell from his hands onto the wet pavement under his feet.

After a moment, Dean leaned against the driver-side door and slowly slid down until he landed on the pavement below. It had just finished raining, so it was cold and wet, the dampness soaked into the bottom of his jeans, but for the moment, he could care less. He was still shaking, but he still didn’t know why; he was cold. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of steps, another person was approaching the car. After a moment, he felt the space next to him occupied by Jody Mills.

"You. You know,” Dean narrowed his eyes at the sheriff,”You know I didn't want to come see this quack. I did everything but throw you out of the bunker, and even that was a near thing. But then you..." At the continued tremor of his hands, he cupped his hands in front of his mouth huffing a breath, pretending to warm them.

“I know,” Jody whispers, her hand rubbing into his arm,”I only brought you here because I needed to see something out of you. I needed you to have some kind of emotional reaction to this, Dean,” She fished a half packet of cigarettes from his pocket and held it out to the latter,”I’d quit, but after all the shit—Screw it.”

“Screw it,” Dean agreed, taking one from the pack.

“I’m sorry, Dean. I’m so sorry,” The sheriff says, her hand was trembling too,”I know this is hard… But, you have to accept it. This is real. This is now,” She lights her cigarette, before offering him the lighter,”All we can do now is cope, however hard that may be.”

Dean didn’t reply, he just lit his cigarette and tilted his head back against the car door. People passed by, giving the two of them strange looks, but they didn’t have enough in them to even give a shit. So, for the next hour or so, the hunter and the sheriff just sat in silence, smoking their cigarettes. Dean is on his third cigarette since he'd sat down; he was so freaking tired.

Dean sighed, cigarette sitting between his lips, and he closed his eyes. He didn't hear footsteps or clothes crinkling or soft breaths. He just felt the cigarette as it was pulled from his mouth, he opened his eyes. And no one was standing there, but the cold around him seemed to heighten. He breathed, and for a split second he was tempted to call out his brother’s name—No, he asked for another cigarette.

This was the closest thing he could get to coping.

 

 

**May 29, 2013**

**Men of Letters Bunker**

**Lebanon, Kansas**

 

 

Dean dreamt of his amulet, old and covered in dirt, the engravings worn and the humanoid head with bull-like horns, so tarnished as to be stolen from view. He held it in his left hand, watching the mud dirty his skin. He brought it close enough to brush his face and the amulet had the aroma of stale blood. Then he felt a hand, it was stiff and cold around his palm as it takes the heavy brass.

Sam was sitting beside him, his grey-skinned hand cusped around the amulet. His brother’s hazel hues are fogged over and dull, and his lips are cracked and chapped and almost white. He is wearing the same clothes he had on before he died, but it looked older as if it was already starting to wear away. Sam’s hand, so cold and pale, is touching the nape of his neck, like he always did when he was about to pull Dean into one of their rare, but coveted embraces.

Sam pulls his older brother close, his lips close enough to gaze his ear. “I-I a-a-am n-not th-the bro-bro-brother… y-you w-wanted,” His voice sounds like a silent scream,”I-I could n-never be… Sammy. N-not af-af-after all t-that h-hap-happened.”

Their father had always said regrets were 'moral residue.' Like something hard to remove got stuck on you when you did something against your better judgement. Dean could never understand it even when he did something wrong himself, but now the residue seems impossible to remove, like an indelible stain on his cerebral cortex. Because he’d tried to fix his brother, instead of accepting that he was broken, and could never be put back together.

“Sam, I…” What was he supposed to say? That it wasn’t true; that would be a lie.

“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare try and deny it… You didn’t want the everything the cage spit back out because everything ugly that you never wanted to see or hear from again, it's all right here,” Sam’s cracked lips are trembling, and his yellowing nails are racking up and down his arms,”You just wanted the image of me you’d conjured up, this puppy-eyed idiot who rode shot-gun and indulged you. If you actually gave a shit about me, you would have…." His dull eyes are blinking rapidly, but his tear ducts are long dried out and decayed; no tears left to cry.

Dean is blinking now, too, he can’t cry, not now. “Sam,” His voice is hoarse,”I tried, shit, I tried… I tried to accept you for all that you are, the good and the bad, but…” He couldn’t get past all that bad: the demon blood, the scars that Lucifer had left behind, the year he waltzed around without a soul.

Ever since he’d come back from Hell, all those years ago, if he's honest — he feels like he’s been mourning the brother that he knew, rather than trying to help the one that was still alive. Because the man that sang shitty songs with him on the open road with a dimply smile was long gone. The boy who would hold him in his arms, so tight and close, like he was the only thing that mattered in his world, gone. The one that would try to make the most out of every little thing; no hunts meant they could stick their toes in the sand at a beach miles upon miles away… Gone.

And to his horror, something bubbles up from his baby brother’s lips, his shoulders shaking — a low, garbled sound. Laughter – Something that resembles laughter at least.

“All you've ever wanted is to have your old Sammy back, without any of the shit,” Sam whispers, the fingers that are racking his arms are starting to draw blood. The blood is thick and clotted, so it doesn’t flow, it seeps,”But, that shit broke me, Dean. W-when you told me that I would die if I finished those trials, it was that shit that convinced me that there was no point in stopping,” Dean closed his eyes,”Because you didn’t want _all_ of me.”

A single tear cascaded down the hunter’s cheek, and it took all of his will power for that one tear not to turn into sobs. “I’m sorry,” He repeats it like a mantra,”I’m _so_ sorry, Sammy.”

This corpse, this rotting thing that was his brother paid no heed to his apologies. Instead it continued,”You ignored me when I would wake up screaming up at night because you didn’t want to deal with the shit,” His fingers move from his arms to his scalp, and his nails scrape the skin there,”I had to suffer through everything _alone_ , while you pretended to be asleep. Every time you ignored my cries I wanted to _scream_ — ‘help me, say something, anything, Dean, please…’ Do you remember that?”

The answer was yes. Some nights Dean would lay in his bed, the screams loud and clear through the walls, and would contemplate going into his brother’s room. One night he’d stood outside Sam’s room for almost an entire hour, his hand grasping at the door handle. But, he couldn’t make himself go in because he didn’t want to acknowledge that his brother was broken.

“I never wanted you dead,” Dean states.

“I did.”

Dean wondered that if he had looked closer, if he could have seen the perfected mask of pretense crumbling down and raw emotions taking over. Maybe, if he had listened carefully, he could have heard the cries buried down deep beneath the fake laughs. It was fascinating how death held the power to bring the unsurfaced into the light. How it unmasks the hidden so brightly. Has death always been this powerful? Did it always have the ability to make one see things better than its counterpart?

“I wanted to die with every _fucking_ ounce of my being,” Sam said.

He suddenly got the sensation that he was being pulled away against his will. The image of his dead brother shifted dizzyingly around him and he felt completely disoriented. In a flash, the darkness dissipated and his eyes flew open. Though his eyes are open he can't think of why; his heart is pounding, mind empty. It's as if a hypodermic of adrenaline has been emptied into his carotid.

Dean sat up slowly, to find himself in his bed, in the Men of Letter’s bunker. His sheets are a tangled mess around his legs, and his breathing is ragged and uneven. He grasped mentally to gain his bearings. He strains into the utter darkness, breathing rate beginning to steady. His hand runs down his unshaven face, and he feels a wetness around his eyes.

 

 

“God,” Dean grits out,”Damn it…”

 

 

SPNSPNSPN

 

 

Dean gripped the bottle in his hands, his red-rimmed eyes swiveling towards the back of his head in a distressed sense of a headache. He tilted his head towards the edge of the counter’s side as he took a long swig of the dark substance that affected him. He sighs as the walls become part of a fun house, changing figure in a blink of an eye.

Castiel walks into the room, his usual stiff, but brisk gait is absent. Ever since he’d had his grace stolen by the angel Metatron, a lot of things had changed about the former-angel. He’s wearing a pair of boxers and a loose t-shirt that fit loosely on his small frame, but his hands are grasping at something. He’s holding a bottle of beer, but he’s eyeing at as if he’s not sure what to do with it.

“Here,” Dean grunts out, startling the latter,”Give it.”

Castiel hands him the bottle, and Dean easily twists off the cap, handing it back to his friend. Castiel takes the spot next to him, and leans his own head back against the counter. After a moment, he takes a sip of the beer and grimaces, but he keeps his hands wrapped around it tightly. The former-angel’s jawline is tensed as if he’s contemplating something.

“What are you thinking about,” Dean questions.

“Things I never thought about as an angel,” Castiel replies simply, his blue hues lax,”Things that I don’t wish to think of… now.”

“Care to clarify?”

_Castiel hadn't meant to take it this far, hadn't meant for his foreign desire to overcome him, hadn't meant to push Sam Winchester against the wall, hadn't meant to kiss him. But it was happening, right now in this very moment, his own dry, hot lips were tightly pressed against Sam’s seemingly quivering one, and it was the most perplexing feeling he'd ever felt._

“…I would rather not.”

“Fair enough,” Dean laughs, and takes another swig from his beer,”I guess since we’re both in our boxers and drinking in the middle of the night, we both have things we don’t want to think about.”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, taking another tentative sip from his beer. He grimaced again.

So, this was their way of coping. Sitting in their boxers as they leaned against the kitchen counter, a beer in hand. There are worse ways to cope, one would suppose, but their way wasn’t exactly deemed healthy either. Only Castiel looked up when one of the empty bottles toppled over on its side, rolling away, a cold breeze along with it. The former-angel frowned and placed his bare foot on the far too cold glass, stopping it from rolling any further.

Dean didn’t like what he was doing, but he was so damn exhausted emotionally right now. Too much pain, too much suffering. He couldn’t help resist the pull towards drinking that roared through his blood. He was thirsty, had been holding back for far too long. Castiel took his foot off the empty bottle and took another quick swig if of his own beer. This was the closest thing they could get to coping.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Castiel spend time together, mutually bonding over the fact that they’re both on bed rest. Then, Sam nearly dies on the angel’s watch and Castiel can’t comprehend his feelings.

_“If you knew that your life was merely a phase or short, short segment of your entire existence, how would you live? Knowing nothing 'real' was at risk, what would you do? You'd live a gigantic, bold, fun, dazzling life. You know you would. That's what the ghosts want us to do – All the exciting things they no longer can.” Chuck Palahniuk_

 

**May 8, 2013**

**Men of Letters Bunker**

**Lebanon, Kansas**

 

Waves of heat coursed through Sam Winchester’s blood, a cold sweat glistened on his gaunt features. His hazel eyes are sunken and his skin is sallow, everything ached, everything sagged. His older brother, Dean Winchester, had come in earlier and set a small mound of pills on his beside table with a glass of water. The glass of water stared at him from the side now, so he took a tentative sip and plopped back onto his pillow; not even sparing a glance towards the medication.

Along with the pills and glass of water, his brother had sheepishly placed a bucket next to his bedside, muttering something about not wanting to clean any more vomit. Ashen faced, Sam now clung to the hideously colored plastic bucket as if it were a life raft. His stomach felt like the bag in a set of bag-pipes being vigorously squeezed. With a heaving lurch of his stomach another small mouthful of bile dribbled from his quivering lips into the waiting pool of rancid vomit.

Sam shuffled to the bathroom and brushed his teeth with the vigor of a starving man earning a hot meal, a futile attempt to get the taste of bile from his mouth. The hunter, now with sore gums as one of his many symptoms, settles on chewing on several pieces of spearmint-gum. Still in his loose, long-sleeved v-neck and sweatpants he got out of bed and wandered into the hallway, his jaw clicking as he continued chewing at the wad of gum.

“He lives,” Dean comments.

Sam snorts, rubbing at his eyes,”Barely.”

“Well,” The older Winchester says, and he motions to a guest room down the hall,”Our feathered friend is also on bed rest, maybe you can keep him company? You know the guy, he isn’t quite used to the wonders of lazing in your boxers and watching television.”

The younger Winchester shivers,”I guess. Are you two still... You know?”

“What,” Dean questions impatiently.

“You’ve been giving him the cold shoulder ever since he came back,” Before his older brother could argue, Sam put up a wary hand,”Please, just do me a favor, lay off the guy. Okay? I get it, he messed up, but he’s trying to make up for it, Dean.”

Castiel didn't even know why he was watching the television show. A billionaire playboy turned hooded vigilante-hero was hardly amusing, and it was much less climatic compared to what the angel faced on a daily basis. He didn't laugh when he was supposed to, he didn't feel any tension during the drama, he barely followed the plot. His eyes rested back on the flickering screen and found that in his brief distraction the commercials had begun. Often he preferred them to the show. They were short, attention grabbing and required no effort to understand.

The knock came quietly first and then there was silence. Slowly, Sam peered his head into the doorway, his eyes quickly settling on his friend. The seraph’s trench-coat was absent, but it was nice how at home he looked in his dress shirt, tie and slacks, sleeves rolled up. As Sam got inched into the room, Castiel’s startling blue gaze swept over him, seeming to see past his v-neck and sweats, making him feel naked.

“I thought you could use some company, seeing as we’re both on bed rest,” The hunter explains awkwardly, a blush starting to rise to his cheeks,”I know you’re not exactly used to the idea of taking it… easy. But, you do need to recover.”

“I am getting better,” The angel points out, and his gravely voice is laced with something that resembled concern,”You are getting worse, Sam.” Then, he tentatively scooted over in the bed, leaving a gaping space.

The human laughs, his gait unsteady,”You’re telling me.”

Sam laid down on the cool space his friend had opened for him, and his eyes winced at the flashing lights on the television. Arrow was playing, but it was painfully obvious that the angel was struggling to understand the plot. He offered to answer any of his questions, so every few seconds the angel would pause the show and question something about a certain character or plot point. The hunter would patiently explain and answer any follow-up questions the latter had, so with a newfound understanding the angel seemed to be able to enjoy the show.

Sam is not sleepy, yet his head lolls and the muscles of his face relax, darkness pushing into the corners of his vision. Though the television blares his eyes are almost closed and from his chest comes the first soft exhale of breath. Without even realizing it, his head falls limp against the seraph’s shoulder, so almost immediately, the seraph’s tenses and eyes him. Castiel’s eyes showed a gentle kind of concern, and designed himself not to move in the slightest, for fear of waking his friend up.

An odd sense of longing pulled at the seraph at the feeling of another’s warmth against him. One he couldn’t yet explain, even to himself. Being on Earth in a vessel for such an extended period of time heightened his desire for physical touch or close proximity. The human mumbled and shifted ever so slightly; if it were not for his superior angelic strength, no doubt the hulking man would be a dead weight on top of him.

“Cas,” Dean pokes his head in the doorway.

Castiel caught Dean’s eyes, and the emotion in the human’s gaze was convoluted to say the least. Dean’s eyes grew wide and he started to open his mouth, but then stopped and seemed to think better of it. This gesture only made the angel’s confusion that much more heightened. The older Winchester was grinning now, and was wiggling his eyebrows in a suggestive manner.

Dean says,”I’m going on a supply run, you need anything? Or do you know if Sam does?”

“I am not in need of anything at the moment,” Castiel considers what his companion might need,”Sam was complaining about not having any firm cucumbers, for his lemon and cucumber water. He does not like the soft ones, he claims they taste different or fail to compliment the lemon juice’s acidity - Do you wish for me to accompany you?”

“No,” Dean snorts and motions at his brother,”You stay here with your boyfriend.”

“Odd,” Castiel declared as Dean left the room.

On the bright side, he didn’t seem to be getting too much of the older Winchester’s bitter attitude. It was discouraging to the angel to be on such thin ice with his usually very close friend, but he knew not trusting him and Sam with the angel talent would usually garner much harsher punishment. So, if anything he was getting a slap on the wrist.

Sam was at an odd angle against his shoulder, and the angel knew adding an aching back to the list of his symptoms was not ideal. He ran his hand down his friend’s back and slouched his body across the bed some more, making his posture more relaxed and laid back to take some of the pressure from his back. The human didn’t even seem to feel the shift of his position, for he laid limp against his shoulder without objection or any sort of settling movement.

“Sam,” Castiel asks, gently patting his friend’s face. Even under the light cotton sheet he was radiating heat like a brick right out of the oven, and he wasn’t responding to any touch. Now the angel was in the midst of a frozen panic.

Placing a hand on Sam’s neck to steady him, Castiel places two finger’s on his forehead. Immediately he can detect the problem; encephalitis, inflammation of the brain. He keeps his two fingers there, pressing down into the fevered skin, and closes his eyes as he allows his faltering grace to heal the man. The seraph’s grace is laced into Sam’s brain, jolting him alive and functional again, pouring down his throat and sides and ringing against his teeth.

Still unresponsive, even though Castiel had healed him to the best of his capability. The seraph sees no other choice than to resort to hunter methods of inducing consciousness, so he makes his way into the kitchen, scouting the various pantries until he can find a vintage metal trash bin. Then he fills the bin with ice from the refrigerator and dumps it into the guest room’s bathtub, over and over gain until it was full.

Castiel scoops him up in his arms like he weighs nothing, because for an angel, he basically does. He deposits the human in the icy water, gently splashing it over his still feverish skin. The human groans softly, not quite coming to full awareness yet – The human lunges from the water, a bellowing gasp of air escaping him, before he stumbles back into the tub again, a splash of icy water going over the angel.

“Wh-w-what t-the f-f-fff-fu-fuuuu-cc –“ Sam was shaking so badly he couldn’t even curse without nearly biting off his own tongue.

Castiel clings to Sam’s drenched shirt collar, eyes wide as he watches the man cough and shiver miserably. He helps the human out of the frigid water, and helped him into the guest bed, wrapping him in every spare blanket he could find. With purple lips tinged with blue and gently chattering teeth Sam wrapped the layers of cloth around himself tighter.

“W-wh-what hap-pp-happened,” The hunter chokes out, his soaking wet hair shaping against his pale face.

“Encephalitis; inflammation of the brain,” The seraph explains,”It explains your worsening symptoms of late. But, you had passed out, and you were no doubt going to die – And you would have, had I not healed you,” He clears his throat,”You still hadn’t woken up, so I did what… Dean would have done.”

Still shivering, Sam laughs,”T-t-that’s n-not a-al-always t-the s-s-smart t-th-thing t-to do.”

“I was… scared," Castiel says, "I thought you were gonna die, and I — I don’t know what I would have done.”

Sam was suddenly feeling warmer and he knew that he was blushing. Castiel begun to confront his own thoughts and emotions as there clearly was something wrong with him for reacting completely different than he usually did, it felt more personal. He felt oblivious to the obviousness of what these feelings might actually be – Human. And still foreign to him.

Abruptly, Sam wrapped an arm around Castiel’s shoulders and pulled him close, gently leaning his head into neck. The embrace was light, his stubble glazed his neck, and for a brief moment his lips brushed against his neck. The seraph was stiff, appreciative of the simple gesture, but not sure how to respond.

Almost as if reading his mind Sam’s chest rumbles as he laughs,”It’s a hug, Cas. You’re supposed to hug me back.” So, that’s what Castiel does.

 

  **May 17, 2013**

 

Castiel approaches Sam Winchester’s body, his warm hand falling softly on his cold skin. He places his hand over his chest that does not rise or fall, that contains no beating heart. A splash of blood had dried into an almost brown shade on his plaid shirt, it was stiff underneath the former angel’s hand. The light had left his eyes as the color from his rosy cheeks vanished as if ice had struck him.

_"I thought you were gonna die, and I — I don’t know what I would have done.”_

He closes his eyes, the hand on the corpse’s chest going up until it rested on his head of hair. His hair is still full and lush, soft like a mane against his hand as he gently strokes some strands back. Then, he leaned down and pressed his lips against his forehead, his hand clenching in the thick, glossy strands.

“...Sam.”

There is a cold breeze, one that tickles across Castiel’s lips. The former angel stiffens, and his fingers come to rest on his lips. The breeze’s touch had left a tingling sensation on them, and a slight taste of mint.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kevin finds out that Sam is dead, but decides to stay and help Dean bury him. Castiel tells Sam how he feels, and it goes well... a little too well.

_“When I was a child I was afraid of ghosts. As I grew up I realized that people are more scary.” Unknown_

 

**May 17, 2013**

**Men of Letters Bunker**

**Lebanon, Kansas**

 

When Kevin walks into the garage, padding in silently, Dean is on his knees in front of the impala, a pile of old bed sheets beside him, silent tears cascading down the blood and ichor drying on his face. His clothes and hands are saturated; his dirty blonde hair soaked and sticking to his forehead. He has a needle and thread pressed between his forefinger and thumb, with one of the sheets pressed against the side of the car.

A large mass is wrapped in clean sheets from the torso up; a pair of torn and frayed jeans hang from the other half along with pale, bare feet that resemble those of a large china doll’s; fragile, pale and lifelike. The prophet feels a sudden weight drop to the pit of his belly, and his hand slaps over his mouth as the sudden urge to vomit washes over him like a frigid tide. On the right foot there was a wide, sunken cicatrice.

_Sam Winchester was padding around the bunker in a pair of sweatpants and a white t-shirt, along with a gray house robe that looked ridiculous on the large man, for his staggering height made it come up to his mid-thighs. Kevin Tran’s gaze doesn’t linger on the ill-fitted house coat, however, but on the hunter’s large uncovered feet. On his right foot there is a jagged disfigurement, that extended from the end of his big-toe to mid-foot like a discolored stream._

_Sam raises an eyebrow, before following the young man’s eyes. After a moment, he smiles. “Yeah,” The hunter mutters, running hand through his messy mane of hair,”That’s probably one of the nastiest scars I have.”_

“ _Hunting accident?” The prophet asks out of curiosity. He’s steeping a tea bag in a mug of scalding water, watching billows of beige penetrate the clear liquid. The string is wrapped around his forefinger and he dips up and down generously, but he tries to keep eye contact with his friend to show that he does have interest._

_Sam’s smile widens and he lets out a soft laugh,”Actually, no. I had dish duty one night and I dropped a kitchen knife onto my bare foot. It sunk all the way to the spine of the blade, and for a split second I didn’t even react,” He shakes his head,”Oddly enough, more of my scars come from plain, boring everyday things then hunting.”_

_As the words left Sam Winchester’s mouth, Castiel walked in. A heavy silence settled over them, thicker then the uneasy tension in the atmosphere. Unsettled eyes glanced unceremoniously around and tried to avoid catching the other’s glance. Kevin shifted uncomfortably in his seat and he grasped his sweaty hands around his steaming cup, and shuffled his feet against the scuffs on the floor below._

_The seraph also looked to have just gotten out of bed, which was odd considering his species does not sleep. Both he and Sam had ruffled hair, glassy eyes, and swollen, red lips that had a thin, almost unnoticeable layer of saliva – The prophet’s face turned a bright red instantly, and his cup of tea seemed to burn more against his hands. He quickly averted his eyes from both of their faces, his gaze returning to the large scar of Sam’s foot; the one scar he’d gotten from a plain, boring everyday thing._

“Jesus Christ, Sam,” Dean snarls softly, picking up the sheet he’d been stitching and wrapping it around Sam’s lower body, and then starts stitching it to the sheet that was tight around his torso,”You never stopped growing did you? Damn it, it was easier back then…”

Sam’s a deadweight in his arms, and he remembers the last time a cloth-swaddled bundle was pushed into his arms; his newborn brother. His arms are still shaking with the strain but he manages, balancing Sam’s wasted form on his lap. His free hand lacing the needle through the cloth, and looping around, again, again, and again. The weight of Sam’s head lolled against his shoulder. He hasn’t even registered the prophet’s presence.

The sheets bundled around the youngest Winchester’s corpse are speckled with crimson from still wet wounds, but Kevin doesn’t pay it any notice as he slowly inches closer. Dean turns to him just in time to see the prophet’s hand lift the still limp sheet to uncover Sam’s face. He vomited; one bleary look told him what he'd been eating last night, fruity, multi-colored cereal and lime-green jello apparently. Staggering away, Kevin kept his gaze off him, he couldn't bare to look his way, because if he saw the grotesque sight again he thought he might vomit a second time.

“Get out of here, Kevin,” Dean chokes out, his red-rimmed eyes hardened,”J-Just ge-e-get o-out…”

“No,” Kevin’s voice is a mere whimper, feeble and weak,”Please, just, tell me what happened… I deserve at least that. Sam –“

“Get out!” The hunter roars, slamming his fist onto the concrete below. The hard surface cracked, and there was a blossom of blood that quickly seeps into the imperfections. There is an emptiness in his eyes, a numbness consuming his nerves, and salty tears flow unchecked from his eyes, the shear nothingness that now took hold of his soul threatened to engulf him entirely. His legs buckled, knees sinking onto the concrete as he still gripped the corpse in his arms.

“…I can’t do this anymore,” Dean grits out, burying his face into the corner of the sheet,”I can’t live with the possibility that I have to carry on without him. Because I can’t fucking do it – I can die for him, but I can’t live for him…”

Kevin stays silent during the entire outburst, feeling like a paper man about to crumble. Moment by moment, his tears begin to fall, salty drops fall from his chin, drenching his shirt. His hands open and closed, rhythmically clenching as if there could be some violent solution to his pain if only he could find it. The silence of his crying was eerie, like he had been forced to learn how to do this. To mourn in a way that was not seen nor heard.

“…What are we doing with his body,” The prophet asks softly, trying to mask the tremble in his voice.

“Burying it,” The hunter replies gruffly. It’s blatantly obvious that he didn’t want to burn his baby brother’s body, that he was going to hold out ‘til the last minute that they could still bring him back somehow.

“Okay,” Kevin gasps out, wiping away at his tears with the sleeve his jacket,”I’ll help. I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”

Dean laughs coldly, shaking his head. “You said you wanted to get out. This is your chance because I’m done, for good this time,” He tightens his arms around the mass in his arms,”There ain’t no me if there ain’t no him.”

“I’ll go when I’m ready,” The prophet responds.

So, two shovels and a mound of dirt later, there is a sizable hole just outside the bunker. Dean and Kevin sit in the war room, dirt and sweat heady in the air as the sip at two luke warm beers. Sam’s body is laying on his neatly made-up bed, in his darkened room because the hunter wants to wait for his newly human friend to arrive. If this really is the end of the line, if there really is no way to bring his brother back, he is done, and this will be good-bye for everyone. Fuck any other world ending catastrophe.

“So, the gates of hell are closed,” Kevin laments, taking a swig from his bottle,”Which takes care of Abaddon and all of the other demons. But where is Crowley in all of this mess?”

“Sam succeeded in curing him, but I quite frankly don’t give a damn,” Dean chuckled darkly, draining nearly half of his own drink in one gulp,”That smarmy dick doesn’t deserve any redemption after the shit he’s pulled over the years, so I hog-tied him and tossed him into the next body of water I passed.”

“…And Castiel, how is he handling all of this?”

“He doesn’t know.”

 

**May 9, 2013**

**Men of Letters Bunker**

**Lebanon, Kansas**

 

_“I thought you were gonna die and I – I don’t know what I would have done.”_

Castiel has just finished giving a long, throughly thought out explanation of what had happened. In the past few hours alone, the seraph had never felt less confidence in his kills to care for another living being. His own abilities did little to nothing to combat the effects of the trials, so he resorted to using human methods of caring for the ill or bed-ridden. To say the least, he had no bedside manner, so his attempts at comfort were more uncomfortable and awkward than anything.

“I was told by the internet that another ‘good all-around food for sick people’ is oatmeal. It is nutritious and has soluble fiber,” Castiel states,”I did use unsweetened oatmeal. But, then he refused to eat it, so I tried using an airplane, but I was confused on where to find one –“

“How long?”

Castiel gave Dean a puzzled look. “How long what?”

“How long you been going all gooey for my brother, dumbass,” Dean utters with a soft laugh.

“I still don’t quite understand,” Castiel replied slowly.

“I didn’t know that angels could be gay, so I don’t really either,” The hunter admitted.

“No, I’m not,” The seraph confirmed,”Homosexual. I don’t believe I’m capable…”

“Bisexual? But you’ve never-”

“For someone who likes to pretend he doesn’t care about people or what they think, you’re awfully attached to labels,” Castiel concluded,”In my true form I am neither male or female, so I suppose I do not have a designated sexual identity like humans do. So it is really a matter of whom I choose.”

“Choose…” Dean echoed, his voice barely perceptible,”Look, if there is something there, between the two of you—I don’t mind. Hell, even if I did, it’s not my place to judge; Sam is a big boy… he can make his own decisions.”

“Dean – “

“He can’t make that decision, however; if he doesn’t know you’ve got a thing for him, Cas,” The hunter informed the angel,”So, you’ve gotta tell him. Besides, given his history an angel wouldn’t be the weirdest thing he’s hooked up with.”

Not waiting for Castiel to say anything, Dean headed up the stairs into a preceding room, leaving the seraph where he stood in the war room. Sam, mere seconds after his brother’s departure, entered the room. He seemed to be looking better, he was just no doubt still exhausted. The youngest Winchester smiled softly, running his fingers through his messy bed-hair.

“Dean said you needed to talk to me about something,” Sam began, running his fingers through his hair several more times in succession,”He made it sound urgent.”

“Oh.” Yet another one of many testaments to the stubbornness of Dean Winchester. “This is not how I imagined it would go,” He muttered, scratching the back of his neck,”If ever.” The seraph added, trying to think on how to go about telling his friend that the he held feelings for him, feelings he had never felt for any other living being. He must have stayed silent too long because the human took over.

“You can tell me anything, Cas,” Sam assures, his expression starting to grow concerned. After a moment, the human laughs softly, a brief flush of pink appearing on his cheeks,”I don’t think I’ve ever seen you nervous before. Or any angel –“

“Sam,” Castiel interjects,”I.. I do not think it is wise of me, to tell you exactly what I feel.”

“…Feel,” Then the light pink turns a furious red on his cheeks,”Oh, I see.”

“Yes,” The seraph whispers, his lips parting ever so slightly,”I’m not quite sure what it means. It is unlike anything I have ever felt before, but it feels… good.”

Sam licks his lips nervously, his own lips parting as he utters,”Good? What do you mean by good?” His breath hitches as he asks the next question,”What exactly do you feel, Cas?”

“Do not do this,” Castiel said quietly, and it for an insane moment, he actually considered turning and flying away. It was a ridiculous thought, however, and he dismissed it with a shake of his head,”…Do not make me say it.”

“No,” Sam bluntly, and the seraph winced at the swift dismissal,”No, say what you mean.”

Sam wasn't talking anymore and Castiel was there, too close, so close he could see the scruff on his pale skin and the hunter’s heart stuttered and he blinked the image away. Only it didn’t… Castiel was still there, closer even...

“Cas?” Sam asked, his voice breaking.

“Sam,” Castiel said with a voice that should not be used outside a bedroom.

The strength he used to haul Sam down was too much, too abrupt, cutting off the human’s next breath with the force of it even before Castiel’s mouth crashed against his. It made the taller man stagger as he was yanked down, the hard grip of the shorter man’s hand in his hair giving him no choice but to land with all his weight against his chest. Their teeth clacked, lips mashed together so hard that it was almost painful. The seraph felt as much as heard the muffled noise of surprise the human made against his mouth.

Castiel slides his arm around Sam’s neck and pulls him closer just as a wide hand grasps at his hip. The seraph can feel his fingers digging into his flesh through his pants and it makes an unfamiliar heat coil in his gut. The taste of this human on his tongue and the smell of his skin should be enough to calm him for now but it only makes him want more. His hand leaves the taller man’s neck and reaches between their chests in an attempt to unfasten the buttons keeping him from the skin he so desperately wants to touch.

Sam gasps, breaking the kiss for a quick second,”Cas… Have you done this before?”

“…No,” Castiel responds,”But I learned a lot from the pizza man.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel and Sam get it on. And later, Castiel invites Charlie to the bunker.

 “ _In_ _Eastern_ _culture_ , _people_ _see_ _ghosts_ , _people_   _talk_ _about_ _ghosts..._ _it’s_ just _accepted_. _And_ _in_ _Western_ _culture_ _it’s_ _just_ _not_.” - _Jessica_ _Alba_  

 

**May 9, 2013**

**Men of Letters Bunker**

**Lebanon, Kansas**

“The pizza man?” Sam utters with a puzzled look, his arms still tight around Castiel’s hips,”I didn’t realize you’d ever even… _you know_?”

The human didn’t recall the seraph ever having a sexual tryst of any kind – Then fuzzy images of Castiel watching television, while Sam and Dean sit at a table, doing research. There are odd feelings attached to this memory, and by odd, he means none. No identifiable emotion whatsoever, in fact there is no real focus beyond the research because in this memory,”everything else is trivial”.

“ _If the pizza man truly loves this babysitter, why does he keep slapping her rear,”Castiel inclines his head to the side, studying the images on the screen carefully,”Perhaps she’s done something wrong.”_

“ _You’re watching porn? Why?” Dean exclaims, a look of disgust going over his face._

_“It was there,” The seraph mutters._

“ _You don’t watch porn in a room full of dudes. And you don’t talk about it,” The older Winchester shakes his head as he states,”Just turn it off,” He looks to his younger brother when the angel looks down at his lap in confusion,”Well, now he’s got a boner.”_

“Ah,” Castiel nods in understanding,”You were soulless at the time, so the memory must be… _odd_ for you, to say the least.”

Sam agrees,”Yeah, it’s there, but it feels empty,” Not wanting to ruin the mood he quickly inserts,”So, that means I’ve never had a demonstration from the pizza man. Care to share?”

Castiel stiffens, his arms tightening around the human’s neck as he licks his lips. Scarlet leaked into Sam’s cheeks as he nervously smiled. He’d forgotten that the seraph was no ordinary sexual partner, this primordial being had no legitimate experience aside from watching a pornographic film - And before he could finish the thought he found himself being carried over the angel’s shoulder on route to the guest bedroom.

"Cas, put me down," Sam said firmly. Reasonably. Though he was beginning to believe that "reasonably" rarely worked with anyone he knew. And by rarely, the human actually meant to say ever, but a good moderator always strove not to make waves.

“Hey, Cas –“ Dean walked down the hall, interrupting their path.

Castiel paused to give a brief nod to Dean, and Sam contemplated whether kicking a seraph in the groin would do any good. Especially once he saw his older brother’s pale, frozen expression of absolute shock as they continued down the hall. The human sighed as the angel swung open the door to the guest bedroom door and carefully swung it back, eyes darting back and forth to make sure their session wouldn’t be interrupted.

Castiel immediately moved into the room. It was laughably easy to dump Sam unceremoniously onto the bed. The human lay there sprawled, propping himself up on his elbows to look at the latter. After a moment, the human thought ‘fuck it’, and surged up against the angel and kissed him with an astounding degree of need.

His hands wasted absolutely no time in sliding their way up the latter’s back torso, pushing off the large trench coat, until his arms were firmly around his neck. He was moaning quietly in the back of his throat, just the faintest vibration - probably a normal person wouldn’t even hear it at all, but Castiel did, and the sound did something that bypassed his brain altogether and went straight to his member. The angel froze, looking down at the tent his pants were hitching.

“I believe I have what is referred to as a boner,” Castiel mutters, before shrugging awkwardly and continuing his touching.

Sam laughed softly at that, pressing a small kiss into the corner of the latter’s mouth,”You’re correct.” He began to loosen the angel’s tie, tossing it over his head with grandeur in mere seconds. And before the latter could even blink, the buttons of his dress shirt were quickly being undone.

The seraph smirked, and waved his hand with a flourish, making a majority of the human’s clothes disappear. “I want to bend you over and do the fucking until you can’t walk,” Not even one second after the words left his mouth, both his and Sam’s face turned bright red,”I’m sorry, that was _very_ inappropriate and immature of me – I apologize profusely, Sam.”

The human swallowed thickly, his eyes hooded as he utters,”I actually found it kind of… hot?” He pressed another light kiss to the latter’s lips, urging him to continue.

Castiel caught Sam’s lips in his, sucking them pink. The human’s skin was flushed, his chest rising and falling quickly as he caught his breath, and his already pink mouth was now a truly obscene shade, swollen and wet. The seraph’s hands seemed to be everywhere at once, nimble, clever fingers dancing all over the human’s burning skin. Then, the human let out a soft, almost delicate gasp. The angel’s slight roughness, akin to an experienced sexual prowler, was really doing more for him than he would have ever care to admit. He could have left then. Maybe he should have. This was really not the way he'd ever imagined this happening, if at all.

They’d stopped moving, Castiel and Sam were at a standstill, neither quite sure where to go from there, so they just stared into each other’s eyes. The angel is hovering over the human, his hands pinning the latter’s arms to his sides, so that he couldn’t move, his lower body squeezed between his legs. The hunter’s moist lips parted slightly in surprise and his breath hitched, but he was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't falter and he held his gaze.

Sam waited for Castiel to either continue or change his mind, but he still did nothing. The human saw the look on the seraph’s face form a question, eyebrows raising slightly, prompting him to speak, but then something changed. Steadily, the angel’s eyes intensified as he started really looking back at the human.

Castiel must have spent too long staring, because suddenly the latter pushed up against him and reached out to brush one hand lightly over the tent of his pants, before deftly maneuvering until it grasped the buckle of his belt.

Sam ran his other hand down the side of Castiel’s face as he offered him a nervous smile. The seraph moaned low and deep in his throat as he moved forward, half bearing down on the human and half being pulled by the hand still firmly holding his belt. The angel takes a shaking breath, placing his hand against the one pressed on his face, cradling the soft, warm skin.

“Do you want this?” Castiel questions, running his thumb down the side of the human’s hand. He needed on final, definite confirmation from him. If they were going to do this, he wanted it for it to be consensual and pleasurable for both of them. Not something one or both would end up regretting later.

Sam’s hazel hues widen for a brief second, before he answers,”…Yes.”

 

 

SPNSPNSPN

 

 

Sam wakes up to the dim glow of his lamp and an empty bed. Doubt creeps in from where it’s always waiting in the shadows of his ribs. His heart drops to the pit of his stomach. Castiel is gone. Perhaps it was really just a one-night stand to the seraph, a way to finally have his own purely sexual tryst. The human doubted that he was even his first choice. All these thoughts crossed his head, and more, when his sleep dampened eyes landed on a note laying against a pillow.

‘I offer my most sincere apologies for my disappearance. Your brother needed me.’ It was written in fine calligraphy on a piece of notebook paper from the desk, and oddly enough it did offer him some reassurance. Why bother to even leave a note if he were nothing more than a one-night stand?

Castiel’s behavior in bed had been a surprise, to say the least. Exactly the kind of surprise that one liked. It didn’t take long for Sam to get his scattered night clothes together and dress, moving silently so as not to wake any of the bunker’s occupants. He pulled on a gray house robe, snorting when he realized that it looked ridiculously petite on his hulking frame. He shook his head and exited his room.

Sam walks into the bunker kitchen, eagerly making a beeline for the coffee maker. He noticed the young prophet Kevin Tran sitting at the table, making a small saucer of tea as he eyes the hunter. Kevin’s gaze shifts down to Sam’s bare feet, and the hunter raised a brow in question. After a moment, he notices what the latter’s gaze is glued on and he smiles.

“Yeah,” Sam mutters running his fingers through his messy mane of hair,”That’s probably one of the nastiest scars I have.”

“Hunting accident?”

The hunter’s smile widens and lets out a soft laugh,”Actually, no. I had dish duty one night and I dropped a kitchen knife onto my bare foot. It sunk all the way to the spine of the blade, and for a split second I didn’t even react,”He shakes his head,”Oddly enough, more of my scars come from plain, boring everyday things then hunting.”

As the words left Sam Winchester’s mouth, Castiel walked in. A heavy silence settled over them, thicker then the uneasy tension in the atmosphere. Unsettled eyes glanced unceremoniously around and tried to avoid catching the other’s glance. Kevin shifted uncomfortably in his seat and he grasped his sweaty hands around his steaming cup, and shuffled his feet against the scuffs on the floor below.

The seraph also looked to have just gotten out of bed, which was odd considering his species does not sleep. Both he and Sam had ruffled hair, glassy eyes, and swollen, red lips that had a thin, almost unnoticeable layer of saliva – The prophet’s face turned a bright red instantly, and his cup of tea seemed to burn more against his hands. He quickly averted his eyes from both of their faces, his gaze returning to the large scar on Sam’s foot. He furrows his eyebrows, before abruptly standing up and leaving.

Sam gulps, awkwardly turning his back to the angel, directing his attention to the coffee pot. He fumbles with the pot, and tries to avoid Castiel’s glacier-blue gaze as he pours himself some of the brew into an off-white porcelain mug. The human sighs, taking a spoon and stirring his coffee, even though he has nothing to stir in; he takes it black. He just feels the need to fiddle with something, he needs a reason not to turn and meet the seraph’s eyes.

Sam shakes his head, not believing his own immature behavior. Slowly, ever so slowly, he turned his head to meet Castiel’s burning gaze. The seraph muttered something that resembled ‘good morning’ though it came out sounding more like Klingon or some other made-up alien language. The human found himself stirring his coffee, that didn’t need to be stirred, again, as the angel started to come closer to him.

Hesitantly, Castiel traced his left hand up the human’s arm, trailing it further up and feeling every inch of it shudder at the feather like touch. Sam’s hand drops the spoon, a little bit of the black coffee sloshing over the side. The human’s face was starting to redden ever so slightly as slowly turned to the seraph again. The angel continued tracing his hand up the latter’s arm, allowing the touch to continue further and further, until it reaches the tender flesh of his neck.

The sight before Castiel was unbearable to witness as all of his senses screamed at him to grab Sam and kiss him and leave him breathless. The temptation was strong, and seeing the reddish color growing on his face only made it harder to resist the urge. He leaned forth towards the other form, tracing his hand further up his neck and gently grabbing his chin, seeing his pupils enlarging as he turned his head to be able to connect their dry lips together.

Castiel hadn't meant to take it this far, hadn't meant for his foreign desire to overcome him, hadn't meant to push Sam Winchester against the wall, hadn't meant to kiss him. But it was happening, right now in this very moment, his own dry, hot lips were tightly pressed against Sam’s seemingly quivering one’s, and it was the most perplexing feeling he'd ever felt.

Dean yawned, stretching as he walks into the kitchen, the smell of freshly brewed coffee beckoning him in. This was before he noticed Castiel pressing Sam against the wall opposite the coffee maker, both of them now frozen as the latter moves deeper into the kitchen. The older Winchester flinched violently, finally noticing the two exchanging saliva, just as he began to pour his coffee. He crinkled his nose and frowned, his disgust evident. After a moment, he shakes his head and moves out of the kitchen, clutching his mug close to his chest.

“That could have been worse,” Sam mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Indeed,” Castiel agrees.

 

 

**August 4, 2013**

**Men of Letters Bunker**

**Lebanon, Kansas**

 

 

Charlie Bradbury threw her suitcase onto the bed, her eyes darting around the guest bedroom. She shivers and rubs her hands together, quickly unzipping her suitcase to fetch her collectible Gryffindor sweater, that had been hand knitted by the old actress that played Professor McGonagall. She eagerly slipped it on over her clothes, sighing in relief as she snuggles into its warmth.

After a moment, there is a brief knock before Castiel sticks his head in. Charlie smiles, and beckons him inside the room. The former angel sheepishly enters, looking uncomfortable as he eyes the bed with a particular look of uneasiness. His glacier-blue hues harden as he turns to the latter, now advertently keeping his gaze from everything else in the room.

“What did you tell Dean?” Castiel questions.

“He thinks I’m here for a convention,” Charlie answers with a shrug,”I’m not keen about lying to one of my few friends, especially with all the crap he’s dealing with already. So, tell me, why do you need me here? And why can’t Dean know?”

The former angel now has trouble maintaining eye contact. “It’s Sam,” He stammers. Immediately the young woman’s eyes widen and she lets out a soft gasp. “I don’t think he’s gone, at least not entirely… I think his spirit still resides in the bunker.”

“Wait,” Charlie interjects, her eyebrow raised,”I’m still kind of new to this hunting thing, but I’m pretty sure that a hunter’s funeral covers everything –“ She closes her eyes, letting out a sharp exhale,”Except… Sam was never given one, was he?”

“No, Dean, he didn’t want to do anything definite, not until he knew without a doubt there was no way to bring him back this time,” Castiel responds,”I’ve been feeling cold spots all around the bunker, and just a general feeling of not being alone. Sometimes things move randomly or I hear strange noises – But I didn’t want to inform Dean of my suspicions right away, not until I knew for sure.”

Charlie sighs,”I can understand that,” She eyes the former angel sadly as she utters,”What are we going to tell him, if your suspicions are true, Cas? I mean… He’s already gone through so much –“

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

The red-head nods in agreement and turns to her suitcase. She begins rooting through novelty items and graphic T-shirt’s, until she pulls out an EMF meter. She slaps the side of it a few times before it hums to life, and immediately it lights up like a Christmas tree. Both freeze simultaneously, letting out shocked exhales that quickly condensates as the temperature in the room drops rapidly.

“…Sam?” Castiel chokes out.

Charlie’s hand goes over her mouth, as the EMF meter continues to go off the charts. She steps back, and says,”Sam, if you’re there… show us a sign. Please, Sam…” Her heart pounds in her chest as she glances around the room,”Sam –“

A pad of paper falls off the desk. And a moment later a pencil wobbles and hits the ground beside it. Castiel fetches both items and examines them, not seeing anything significant. Then the former angel presses the pencil against the pad and starts rubbing the lead against the paper. He gasps softly as words start to appear, the last things written on this pad week’s prior to the present.

“I offer my most sincere apologies for my disappearance. Your brother needed me,” Charlie reads over his shoulder, her voice trembling,”What does it mean?”

Castiel gulps, and states,”It means Sam has been trapped in the veil.”


End file.
